


there are children screaming in a hallway;

by JewFlexive



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of trauma, Angst and Tragedy, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Community: snapedom, Free Verse, Gen, Gryffindor vs. Slytherin Rivalry, Introspection, Lily Evans Potter & Severus Snape Friendship, Poetry, Slytherin Albus Severus Potter, leaving a complicated legacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 23:18:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17776124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JewFlexive/pseuds/JewFlexive
Summary: He buries his head in his hands as the children around him become children-playing-at-soldiers;As they braid their tiny fingers together and whisper broken codes into walls,As they call the green ones enemy and mix their war-paint blue, yellow, but mostly red;He asks himself how it is that his quiet chemistry has become this explosive thing.





	there are children screaming in a hallway;

He buries his head in his hands as the children around him become children-playing-at-soldiers;  
As they braid their tiny fingers together and whisper broken codes into walls,  
As they call the green ones  _enemy_ and mix their war-paint blue, yellow, but mostly red;  
He asks himself how it is that his quiet chemistry has become this explosive thing.  
  
(he used to sit to watch the vials with her,  
his starved eyes silently catalogued each as the silver fumes made love in air,  
and his long, stained fingers scuttled over the outdated texts as  
their child-faces wore child-smiles, their lonely lips stretched wide  
and the small notes he left on his hand-me-down book spoke of better things  
not bloody knives and ruined forearms)  
  
On his desk lays a brash too-large thing; the edge of it glimmers with words unforgettable  
Words that are carved into each layer of his battered skin-like armour.  
He wonders at the sword, his eyes watering even as his heart dries up;  
_Is this the weapon that will finally kill me?_

(in a court of law this is what is called a question  
asked-and-answered; the sword is red and the red place killed him when he  
was eleven and his naivety choked him as surely as those four boys did later,  
was fourteen and taught that different lives held different worth  
was sixteen and his anger clouded his vision,  
red hair, red ties, red blood, _mudblood_ )  
  
His old friend’s feline eyes glint furiously as she easily condemns him,  
And his breath crumbles as he looks at her, all vengeance and brute force and hatred  
(Red hatred, she wore a red tie, he forgets sometimes that lions are a type of cat)  
She used to sneak him biscuits when he forgot to eat, but she also used to blame him for the rain,  
So, honestly, it’s his own fault for believing this time.

( _best friends,_ she’d told him once, bright eyed and beautiful, _always, always forgive each other.  
_she’d broken something, or he’d raised his voice, or one of them had missed a birthday,  
but it was okay because their hands were clasped tight in each others  
and friends did not leave friends sleeping outside portrait holes)   
  
The dead man says it will end, that one day soon, the school will become a battlefield in good time,  
But he doesn’t see how that is something to be prayed for, not now  
When there are children screaming in a hallway;  
One that always ( _always_ ) fails to protect those who need it most.  
  
(the man in the canvas wore bright yellow business suits meant for unease,  
made nonsense normal and danger a daily thing,  
and sitting here, he thinks that maybe the carnage is that dead man’s fault, really,  
you can’t refuse a monster closet space and expect it not to make a new home under your bed  
and insert himself into every _sweet dreams, my prince_ until it becomes  
_if you truly loved her, your way forward is clear_ )  
  
The boy in front of him looks like the way nails on a chalkboard feels  
His voice sounds like nightmares and the way he walks into rooms feels like 1975,  
The father is dead, but the son continues his legacy with a pride  
That makes his hands shake and sleep a far-off, imaginary thing.  
  
( _he has her eyes_ , he was told that autumn night where his body folded into itself, when  
he sat in the dusty corner of his old house, rotting crown molding digging into  
the end of his spine as he grit his teeth and _pushed._  
but green doesn’t mean what it used to mean, it is not tree swings, love, and  
cunning people with sharp tongues and sharper minds;  
now it only lies and damning silences and _please_ ,  _Severus, please  
_and he knows that this change in definition is the worst thing he could ever do to her)  
  
It is evening now, and both the monsters (masters) have left him for good,  
Though he isn’t sure which one he is most grateful to lose.  
He thinks back on the people he wasn’t quick enough, smart enough to save and  
Prays that his blood will give those bones fewer reasons to scream.  
Her son’s bruised hand is clasping a vial of his own doom, and he thinks that  
The boy has never looked so much like her.  
  
( _look at me_ , he tells the still-just-a-boy gasping, grasping for moments that he knows  
all too well tend to slip away faster than sighs.  
what he doesn’t say: _i would have loved you for her had i been free to,  
__i’m sorry i couldn’t save you either,_ _she had the same mole you do, did you know,  
__right there, below your ear_ )  
  
The world is bright red and spinning, but his mission is complete, and he  
Takes one last look at Lily’s son and almost smiles.  
He closes his eyes. He rests.  
The air is silent.

( _he was the bravest man i ever knew_ , Lily’s child will tell his own son later  
and that small boy will write his father the next day, a green tie around his neck  
_no,_ the boy will counter, as he plays chess with a portrait with tired eyes and a quiet smile  
_no, he was all the rest_ )

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have much to say about this poem I wrote instead of writing my term paper, but:
> 
> This is not the best thing I have written for the Harry Potter fandom. But I think it is my favorite.
> 
> Enjoy, and as always, reviews are encouraged!


End file.
